


Patriotism & Prejudice

by MissingTriforce



Series: Patriotism & Prejudice [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice (2005), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bucky is Bingley, Companionable Snark, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Darcy is Darcy, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mutual Pining, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sex Magic, Stealth Crossover, Steve is an unimpressed time traveler, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: It is not a truth universally acknowledged that you will find a naked, well-muscled man in the bushes underneath your window, but here we are. A naked, and very-obviously-in-pain human being of mannish nature is under James Buchannan Barnes’ window, and he’s not imagining it, because he has a hangover, which means he isn’t currently drunk, and also he’s just poked the man with his sword cane and the man emitted a loud, headache-pounding groan.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Jane Bennet/Caroline Bingley
Series: Patriotism & Prejudice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693642
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	Patriotism & Prejudice

It is _not_ a truth universally acknowledged that you will find a naked, well-muscled man in the bushes underneath your window, but here we are. A naked, and very-obviously-in-pain human being of mannish nature is under James Buchannan Barnes’ window, and he’s not imagining it, because he has a hangover, which means he isn’t currently drunk, and also he’s just poked the man with his sword cane and the man emitted a loud, headache-pounding groan.

“Oh God, why am I subjected to this?” James asks. “Are you a Romani? A fair-haired Romani? Why are you here?”

The man emits a small moan, which is little better on James’ aggrieved senses, but he pokes the man again nonetheless. “See here, I’ve just moved house to this dratted place, so I don’t know if you’re accustomed to money or services, but I’m out at the moment.”

Obviously still unsteady, the man clutches the snow with one of his ridiculously huge hands. Unsteady as a sailor new at port, he raises himself up and James is treated to a glorious view enshrined in blonde curls.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” James says. “Cover yourself, man. Have a—have a shift.” James pulls the first thing he can reach, which is his discarded nightgown. Yes, it is 11 o’clock in the morning and it has taken that long for James to be fully dressed.

The man remains oblivious of James’ presence and looks agape about the English winterland. He huddles in on himself, hands to his chest. James reaches for him, but sharp-like the man snaps away, looking James full in the face for the first time.

Disbelief spreads like a bullet wound across the man’s face, starting in his eyes and branching out like blood. It can’t simply be because an English gentleman is handing him a nightgown.

“Bucky?”

James drops the shift in surprise. “Who the hell is ‘Bucky’?” he says, letting his voice crack with command. He’s still got it. Runs deep in his veins.

“Where are we?”

Goose pimples spread down Bucky’s neck. He grabs the man’s shoulder and instantly regrets it.

A _frisson_ sears through his fingers, as if kerosene drops hot and burning down his arms to his heart. He feels as if his eyes bauble in vodka and his brain, in nostalgic recognition. He knows this man. He lets his sword cane clatter to the floor, headache or no. “Come inside,” James orders. “This instant.”

The man dawdles a moment, but James can’t stand it. James seizes him by the shoulders to pull his hulking mass through the window. “Don’t forget the shift,” he orders, and the man dutifully grabs it. After the stranger is safely dripping water on his bedroom’s carpet, James shuts the window with a snap.

“All right,” James says, shoulders tense as he slowly turns on his heel to face his visitor, “Explain yourself, sir. By the fire.”

The man couldn’t have been out for very long since he’s not a distinct shade of blue, but winter is winter no matter how long you’re out enduring it naked.

The man’s hands shake and tremble like a caught school boy’s as he lowers the shift over himself and steps closer to the fire. One thing James will say about Netherfield: the servants know their work. The fire blazes.

“Bucky,” the man repeats. “What—what are you wearing?”

“What else should a gentleman wear?” he demands. “Tell me—how do you know my name? My name out of childhood? Do you hail from Romania? I don’t recall your face, but I seem….” James feels himself take a step closer, inspecting the man’s angular features, the blue eyes, the blonde hair. He smells…. well, he smells of man musk, sweat, and dirty snowfall. He looks Irish, but there are no Irishmen in Romania. “I feel I know you.”

His brain reasserts itself after that divulge of sentences, and pounds obstinately. His hands fly to his temples. “God, I need coffee.”

“You’re a gentleman?” The man asks. He’s been inspecting James too.

James licks his lips. This is all too much before breakfast. “Yes, I am. James Buchannan Barnes. Ridiculously American name, but Father is American and Mother is a Romanian pianist. I’m living in England because New York is intolerable. What is your name, pray?” His voice grows sharpish at the end, but really, he deserves some coffee and toast for this nonsense.

“You don’t….” The man visibly swallows. “Name’s Steve.”

“Steve what?”

“Steve Rogers.”

“Perfect. You’re now my manservant. I’ll tell everyone you arrived in the dead of the night and are a present from my meddlesome father. There are clothes in that wardrobe. Get dressed. Breakfast is downstairs, and I’ll sneak some buttered rolls in your pockets, not that Darcy or my sister will care.”

Steve trundles to the wardrobe and opens it. James’ brain calms enough to bother him about the recognition again: this “Steve Rogers” is ridiculously familiar to him. He knows the lines of muscle framing the shift, the way they bend to pick up the small clothes, how the fingers roughly smooth over his silk. It’s maddening. Like a word or place just out of reach, but dancing on the tip of his tongue….

Is Steve just going to stare at a cravat all day or is he going to get dressed?

“You do know how to dress yourself, don’t you?”

“Uh….”

James lets out a long-suffering sigh and marches over. “Small clothes, breeches, stockings, er…. this vest is your color…and this coat. A big pair of shoes.” He is rough dressing Steve, much more rough than needful, but if he pauses at all he will be forced to acknowledge how aware of the act he is. His breath naturally ghosts closer than necessary to Steve’s skin, spreading warm breath like wrapping fog. James’ hair, free from styles for once, brushes against Steve’s knee. Steve’s adam’s apple is the size of James’ thumb and bobs like a target while James settles the gold cravat pin.

Worst of all, when he steps back to admire his handiwork, he can’t note the loveliness of blush spreading over Steve’s face, the way it tips his ears pink.

“Acceptable,” James accedes. “Now, stand behind me looking important and pull out my chair when I go to sit down at breakfast.”

#

“James?” Darcy says over the rim of his teacup.

“Hmm?” James is only halfway listening because he’s really reading the newspaper and really really not thinking about how Steve is a perfect-sized human heater and wind-block. Apparently Oxford is beating Cambridge at cricket.

“You seem to have acquired a…manservant,” Darcy says, setting the tea down.

“Oh? That’s Steve.” Big dramatic sigh and paper turning. “Father sent him from America.”

“And did he mysteriously arrive in the middle of the night?” Caroline bats an eye while breaking apart an eggshell. Wow, somebody’s snide today.

“As far as I can tell, yes,” James says, scanning the columns for something more occupying to read. “Darcy, did you steal the opinion section out again?”

“It’s not stealing when I arrive down first.”

Caroline does not drop the Steve subject. “Did Father send a letter or note or literally anything else with this man who is seemingly wearing your third-best morning coat?”

“Absolutely not,” James makes very clear by pronouncing each and every syllable. “Though I could send a servant to that local place—Meryton?—to buy chocolates and give them to you this evening and we can pretend they’re from Daddy and eat them while saying disparaging remarks on his parenting skills.”

Caroline is silent a moment, considering. The siblings share a truce and a smile across the breakfast table. "That will do nicely," Caroline agrees.

#

James’ day is occupied by visitors: the servants have spread the word that Netherfield is let at last, and gentlemen have come calling. James, Darcy, and Caroline have to sit finely or strut importantly or drink tea for hours, and the only time James lets Steve out of his sight is to use the privy. Otherwise, the mysterious man acts like a bodyguard, opening and closing doors, looming rather threateningly over the guests if they turn presumptuous, and standing maddeningly still when not needed.

At 8 o’clock in the evening, a one Mr. Bennet and Sir Lucas leave. James applauds them for timing and the content of their talk.

“Darcy,” James says, scooting closer to Darcy on the settee.

“No.”

“That’s two invitations to hunt, Darcy.”

“You know I despise shooting, and I refuse to be bullied into it.”

“They must have ponds too. You can admire the frozen fishes while I test their shots.”

“Just because you have a polite face and agreeing manner does not mean I have to follow up on your social promises.”

“But it will be amusing, Darcy.”

“So would both of you shut up, so we can sup,” Caroline interrupts.

James rounds on her. “Caroline, would _you_ break all sense of decorum and go shooting with me and the nice gentlemen?”

“You know I can’t stand the things,” she says. She rises to go to the dining room and the gentlemen follow.

Supper is a pleasant affair—the cook here is the stuff of wonder—and James works more upon Darcy to go shooting with him. Caroline has also somehow learned that there is a public ball next week, and it takes further persuading to get Darcy and, awkwardly, Caroline herself into attending that.

But all that is easy: though he only met Darcy last year, he feels he’s known the man forever. And Caroline wants to be persuaded, no matter what her mouth says.

James can’t discuss his truly pressing matter until Caroline has retired to bed (post-promised chocolates and parental disparaging) and Darcy and he are alone, smoking on the balcony. Steve stands by the doorway, far enough away not to hear.

“What do you think of him?” James asks.

Darcy instantly knows whom he means, and he exhales a plume of smoke. “I’d say military, going by his ability to frighten the tiresome guests and follow your ridiculousness.”

“I found him outside my window. I thought he was a Romani.” Better leave the nakedness out.

Darcy arches an eyebrow. “Had he stolen your clothes?”

Oops. “No, I lent him those. He, er, was indecent.”

James senses a laugh. He senses a distinct bubbling building up in Darcy’s chest and smiles against himself when it shakes Darcy’s shoulders and cracks the somber façade into a smile and a silent chortle. “Only you would do this, and I—how am I going to protect you from yourself?”

“Ha ha,” James says. “Very funny. Now, I want to keep him. He—I’m being serious now, Fitzwilliam, stop giggling—he reminds me of someone.”

“Who?” Darcy coughs to end his mirth and takes a drag from the cigar.

“I don’t know. It just seems like I know him.”

Darcy exhales, and his eyes twinkle in mirth. James senses the suppressed laugh. “So, let me set this aright. You found a man without a stitch to his name—and we can only assume ‘Steve’ is his name—outside your bedroom window and, instead of calling the constable to arrest the tramp, you pulled him in, lent him your clothes, gave him a job, and asked his name and if he’d like rolls stuck in his pockets.”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

Darcy laughs loud this time, a real laugh that James feels he’s stolen from a vault of Darcy laughter. It sets the heart aflutter. “May only the Lord in heaven stop you, James.”

“Excellent.” James takes a celebratory drag of good cigar.

“But you forget to feed him supper.”

“Shit,” James plumes out smoke, wraps an arm around Darcy’s shoulders, and calls to his new manservant. “Steve! We’re going to show you the kitchens.”

#

James leads Steve to his bedroom after he and Darcy show him to the kitchens, and Steve has a proper bite to eat. Since shyness is wasted after what he’s seen this morning, he scavenges together two shifts and throws one at Steve, who adeptly catches the fluttering cotton.

“You can have that,” James says, stepping behind a painted screen to change himself.

James can feel Steve pause, as if he to take a thoughtful breath inward. “And where am I going to sleep, Bucky?”

Tension twangs into existence, thin and cutting as a piano wire. James pauses in taking off his shirt. Tread careful now. “Traditionally, the manservant sleeps in a pallet on his master’s floor, but a room in the servants’ quarters can also be arranged.”

“And untraditionally?” Does this man, this Irish Romani know what he’s risking? James throws his discarded shirt as casually as possible over the screen. “Bucky?”

James unbuttons his breeches and shimmies out of them and stockings all. Donning the shift, he steps out from the screen to see Steve still fully dressed and clutching his nightgown.

“You keep calling me that,” James says. He levels The Gaze at him, a term his sister Caroline coined. Apparently studying people with intent makes them uncomfortable.

But James needs to know: is Steve expecting? Is Steve hopeful? Does Steve want…?

Steve’s lines are a mess of tension. James could bounce a farthing off his shoulders, could bet on the man’s springing distance based on the way he slightly bends his knees in a ready stance. He fears for the nightgown’s longevity.

Yet Steve returns his stare. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

James’ mouth goes dry. “A long time ago, yes.”

Steve nods and shrinks a little, starts fiddling with his fingers. “Bucky, this may seem a little strange, but what year is it?”

This is _not_ the follow-up sentence James expects. He was expecting something along the lines of his own mind’s thought: wonderment. Wonderment that he has found someone of his own tastes, someone who is just as inverted as he is, how even though he sailed across an ocean to escape this sort of love and scandal, it has followed him literally to his windowsill.

And then the _knowing_ hits him. The recognition. He knows this man and this conversation. He knows he is safe. He knows he is accepted, and he doesn’t know why he knows this or why a lump insists on forming in his throat. He swallows it down. “It’s 1814.”

Steve says, “Ah.” Then he chuckles, a smooth rolling sound. “Figures.”

“Have you lost track of the time?” James asks, trying to joke. He clears his throat and shakes himself. “Ahem, well, I see the other servants brought you a pallet if you’d like to sleep there.” He gestures at the green cushioned thing at the foot of his bed. “Or, look, I don’t really need a manservant. I can take care of my clothes and things myself. Caroline—she’s always hogged the servants. You’re free to go anytime.” James waves him off, and since he can’t stand looking at that gorgeous blonde head anymore, he starts shuffling off to the safety of his sheets.

With only a footstep in warning, a warm hand wraps around James’ forearm. “Hey, I want to stay,” Steve says. James turns in disbelief at this and is met with soft lips against his. The kiss is too short by far, but what Steve says next is sweeter still: “’Cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line.”

James doesn’t know what this statement means exactly, but devil may care because he’s close enough to lean in and finish the damn kiss. This too, is tantalizing and familiar. This man is going to drive him mad.

Too many revelations in one day. “You can stay,” Bucky says. “But perhaps sleep on the pallet. One needs one’s rest.”

#

The next week is fully occupied with taking care of Steve, and, if he’s absolutely forced, the Hursts. Bucky does love his sister, but he does not get on half as well with Louisa as he does with Caroline. Mr. Hurst can be a jolly good Englishman in a pinch: he compliments the chef, he praises the brandy, he plays good cards, he’s well-read on the classics, and he’s always game for hunting. Louisa, on the other hand, has taken to English snobbery like a chimney sweep to lung disease. She used to disparage it like he and Caroline do, but now she’s succumbed with a gripping enthusiasm. She’s so obsessed with herself and her own standing that she nigh forgets other people’s ills, including her siblings’.

Steve is a welcome escape. Besides teaching him the rudiments of manservantry, Bucky takes him to Meryton on Tuesday and buys him a set of clothes and a trunk. Steve, as the servant, of course has to carry everything, and his face makes an interesting grimace. At one point, he drops the lot on his toe and lets loose a colorful barrage of blasphemies against God, mankind, and even tiny orphans. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he asks.

A rueful smile spreads wicked on Steve’s face. “I’ve kissed your mother, punk.”

“It’s no wonder she died of apoplexy,” Bucky says. “Now does your ‘fucking toe’ require a ‘Jesus Christ, shit’ doctor, or do you need help with these ‘punk ass’ packages?”

There have been no questions of kisses or bed-sharing since the first night. Don’t misjudge him: Bucky wants to kiss Steve and wouldn’t mind a tumble, but Steve is so unknown. The man himself hasn’t offered much, only speaks when spoken to. His every gesture reminds Bucky of a time forgot. To touch him would be like touching a dream, and Bucky needs to tread careful around anything so fanciful as that. He has his family—especially Caroline—to think of.

Assemblies are very, very important. It slightly annoys Bucky that Louisa must fiddle with her appearance so much as to make the whole group late. Everyone, including Caroline’s maid and Steve, must needs wait in the front hall for her.

“If I sighed louder, do you think she would hear it?” Caroline asks. She looks the picture of loveliness her white satin gown and hair up and be-pearled.

Darcy says, “Perhaps if we did it together.” Darcy is in his second-best evening coat, but has splurged on a dark green color in his vest. A solid attempt at festivity on his part.

“Now, now, Darcy,” Bucky chides, “Just because you are nervous doesn’t mean you get to be nasty. That’s Caroline’s occupation.”

“Yes, generally,” Caroline says. “But tonight I will want for a partner in wit. I’m unsure of the brain power in your average country ball.”

Hurst splutters, “Country dances are the best, girl. Everyone in the city needs at least two or three glasses to unwind enough to lift their skirts or tails during a dance, but in the country, you’ll see boots and petticoats from the start.”

Steve, who’s standing off to the side, snorts in laughter. Bucky smirks and rounds on him. “Something amusing, Mr. Rogers?”

“Nothing, sir,” Steve replies instantly. He even straightens as if under military inspection.

“Oh, really?” Bucky steps into Steve’s space and reaches to smooth the man’s collars: he has multiples since Bucky insisted on him wearing the heavy winter coat. Steve will spend the evening with the servants, which Bucky hears is cheery enough, but there’s no room for him in the carriage—he’ll have to freeze with the driver on the way over. Bucky undoes the cravat and begins to re-pin the gold needle, letting his fingers savor the smoothness of the fabric through his gloves. A simple, unremarkable gesture. No suspicions raise or decency feathers flutter.

He inhales Steve’s scent and secretly hopes Steve smells Bucky’s favorite cologne. Ah—there. Steve’s ears have turned that delicious pink. Bucky steps away.

Louisa chooses this moment to appear and distract everybody. If she has any more seed pearls sewn into that sea-green gown she will turn into an oyster. “Ready,” she says, fan already going at a steady beat. Is it healthy for waists to be that tiny? Surely it would harm any potential child?

“Thank God,” Caroline says. “Let’s get this evening over with.”

“Come, come, don’t be like that already,” Bucky says, taking her by the arm and leading her to the carriage. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Steve follow them.

The trip to Meryton Assembly is thankfully short, and everyone is unloaded in due course. Before the group enters, Bucky tugs Steve aside. “The servants have a separate party,” he informs the man. “If it’s not going well, pass this bottle around.” Sneaking it from his hidden cloak pocket, he hands Steve a bottle of whiskey and gives a cheeky wink. “You’ll be a hit.”

Steve chuckles. “It’s Irish too. Thanks.”

“It’s all about staying in character,” Bucky laughs before departing with the others.

Bucky resists rolling his eyes when the entire assembly quiets during their entrance: yes, he could afford more carriages than most in the room, but that’s no reason to stare. He opts for a benign smile instead as he and Caroline, arm in arm, part the proverbial Red Sea of guests. He can feel Darcy winding in a tense coil of awkwardness. His friend is a trier all right, but Bucky will have to produce buckets of charm to shield him.

The assembly is festooned with red and green streamers, holly, mistletoe, and pine dangle from corners, and balls of glittering light shine next to the candles. Men—of which Bucky counts few—follow after Darcy in darkened Christmas colors for their suits, and ladies are either pure white, muted green, or demure red. Quite tasteful, if he does say so himself.

Caroline and he reach the far end of the room, and he sets up camp, as it were. A line forms of people eager for introductions. Each time a group approaches, he plays host and introduces Darcy, Mr. Hurst, Louisa, and Caroline.

There are the Kings, a gentlemen’s family with three sons and the youngest accomplished daughter. A quite medieval bunch since the sons stand as inheritor, churchman, and solider all in a row. The Phillips couple is a childless marriage of perfect happiness who make Bucky smile. The Lucases, meanwhile, are again traditional: two sons and three daughters, each more bookish and dour than the last. It is after them that a gaggle of local militia men introduce themselves, the company under one Captain Carter. Darcy notably doesn’t resist rolling his eyes at Bucky and Hurst’s enthusiasm for this group.”Oo, we must play cards with those fellows sometime,” Bucky remarks to his exasperated companion. “And have gunnery practice.”

“Someday, I will simply hide your gun,” Darcy says. “And after a brief look about, you will grow bored of the very notion of hunting.”

“No, I will simply buy a new rifle.” This retort makes Darcy’s eyes spark with challenge and amusement, which is much preferable to dull fear.

“I’ll hide that one too,” Darcy fires back.

“I will buy all the rifles, Darcy."

“Well then I will replace all the rifles with books and those paintings you like.”

“Romanticism! Ah, what I wouldn’t give.”

Caroline coughs loudly from behind her fan, and Bucky turns to see the new guests. “Oh! My dear Mr. Bennet,” he smiles. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Yes, indeed,” the older man says. His swarthy, lined face and dark curls of hair fits nicely with the decorations. “Mr. Buchannan, may I introduce my wife, Mrs. Bennet, my younger daughter Mary and my eldest daughters Jane and Elizabeth.”

“And we have two more daughters, already dancing,” Mrs. Bennet chimes in, though only if a chime were stabbing you in the foot while ringing.

Bucky bows. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. And may I introduce my friend Mr. Darcy of Derbyshire, my sister Mrs. Hurst and her husband Mr. Hurst, and my sister Caroline.” Bows all around, and Bucky notes that Mrs. Bennet must have quite the excitable nature as she is practically vibrating at being introduced to so many auspicious persons at once. Bucky glances at Caroline and spots a speculative gaze at Jane Bennet. He glances at Darcy and sees the same look directed at Elizabeth. Ah. “I thank you for the honor of meeting you all. May I ask Miss Jane Bennet to dance? My dance card is quite empty.”

Mrs. Bennet’s fan starts fluttering so quickly that Bucky fears fire. “It would be my pleasure,” Jane says. Her voice is like her mother’s, only more of a delicate, non-lethal bell. Her blonde curls are enticing, and her eyes as charming a blue as Steve’s.

Carefully, very carefully, Bucky nudges Darcy. Darcy says nothing. He nudges him again. Darcy imitates a frozen statue. “I will find you for the next dance,” Bucky smiles at the family, who skitters away with joy on two faces and relief on the others. Bucky leans back to whisper in Darcy’s ear. “Ask her to dance, you fool.”

“Ask whom to dance?” he says, trying not to move his lips because that would ruin his impression of a statue.

“The girl,” Bucky prods. “Elizabeth Bennet. I saw your face. You thought her pretty.”

“I thought her tolerable.”

Caroline smacks her brother with her fan. “Leave the poor man alone. He’s with me tonight, remember?”

“Darcy is an eligible man with fortune and in want of a wife,” Bucky retorts. “And he’s not going to get one by romancing the Christmas decorations.”

“These are good decorations,” Mr. Hurst butts in. “They’ll make good kindling after.”

Louisa treads upon her husband’s interruption. “There’s simply no one to talk to at this party,” she sighs dramatically.

“The Kings, Lucases, and Bennets are gentle families. And the room is full. Make friends,” Bucky says. “I’ve got a dance.”

And dance he does. Jane, it turns out, is a brilliant dancer, and this pleases Bucky exceedingly. It’s almost like dancing with a Christmas angel, or a cloud, as her gauzy dress floats and swirls around her exquisite frame. As she twirls, Bucky smells summer peaches. When they’re close, Bucky ventures on a few jokes, and she laughs with true mirth. He touches her fingers and feels the fine bones. A gentle lady’s hands.

So as to not snub the other ladies, he dances once with Charlotte Lucas and Mary King. Mary’s head is full of mayflies, and her dancing so robust she nearly knocks people over. Charlotte, meanwhile, knows all the dances, performs each perfectly, and is an excellent conversationalist. He ought to invite her to dinner.

After the dance with Charlotte, it’s nearly midnight, and he excuses himself for a drink of sherry. He ought to get a fan too. It’s so hot in all these clothes.

He’s alone for only a moment with his sherry before Caroline and Darcy appear. “You’ve been busy,” Caroline notes, offering another glass of sherry. He drains his and swaps, letting the cool alcohol pool in his stomach.

“I think you’ll like Jane,” he says, taking deep breaths. “And Charlotte Lucas.”

“Yes, thank you for asking how we’re carrying on,” Caroline snaps.

“Excuse me, how are you carrying on?” he asks, politely and definitely without stealing Darcy’s sherry.

“Is it polite to go home yet?” Darcy asks.

“He keeps not looking at a certain brunette,” Caroline says.

Bucky blinks. “Er, I suppose he should not ask a certain brunette to dance then.”

Caroline says, “That would be the least silly course of action, yes.”

“And definitely not talk to her about poetry.”

“Oh yes, poetry would be awful.”

“Or the book he’s reading about Admiral Nelson.”

“Nobody actually likes the Navy nowadays.”

“Please bugger off,” Darcy mutters, a look of sheer misery on his face. “Your efforts are wasted on me. James is dancing with the only true beauty in the room. Elizabeth is barely tolerable. Leave me alo—” Darcy gives a start, “James, is that your manservant across the room?”

“Pardon?” Bucky’s senses go on full alert and there, almost broaching the dance floor, is indeed Steve Rogers, broad shoulders and all.

“Oh Lord, what now?” Caroline asks. “The man looks like a lost dog.”

Bucky is off, though he hears Caroline’s step after him. Together they wade through the dancers and with remarkable speed, Bucky catches the errant Irishman by the arm and shoves the empty sherry glasses into his hands. “Pretend I called you out here to take these away,” Bucky says. “But really, what can you be thinking?”

Steve looks dumbfounded at the glasses in his hands. “I just….” he begins. He glances at Caroline. “Wanted to see if you were doing all right.”

“I’m perfectly well, excepting these dirty glasses.”

“You won’t last long if you break the rules,” Caroline says from behind her fan. “It’s improper for a member of the lower classes to join their betters. We could all get in trouble.”

Caroline’s comment stings, but Bucky knows its truth. To soften the blow, he places an intimate hand on Steve’s wrist. “Are you getting on well with the other servants?”

“They, er,” Steve fumbles.

“Mr. Buchannan?” a bell-like voice says.

The blood drains out of Bucky’s face as he turns to Jane Bennet. He pulls his hand away like Steve’s wrist is on fire, but he sees that she’s caught the movement. In a wild thought, he thinks about how Steve and Jane could be siblings; their colorings are so similar.

Caroline saves the day: “Jane, was it? You’ve been dancing quite often with my brother.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Bucky turns away from Steve. Steve’s face becomes all somber, stern lines as he’s forced into the background of the conversation.

“Oh, he’s a beautiful dancer,” Jane says, eyes downcast, face flushed, and voice quiet. She then raises her gaze to look at Caroline directly. “I was hoping to speak with _you,_ Caroline, though. Where did you buy your dress? I—I would quite like the same style in lavender.”

The realization hits them all at once. Everyone is still. Everyone lets the realization settle on them like snowfall on a silent night.

Like finds like. We must all needs survive. To do that without love is even more frightening.

Steve coughs. “If that’s all, sir, I’ll return to the kitchen.”

“Very well, Steve,” Bucky automatically replies. He shakes himself. “Actually, one thing more. Just—this way.”

Bucky flits through the guests with ease until an empty dark corner can welcome them in. He ushers Steve after him and asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. The boys were impressed you gave me the whiskey, saying something about ‘generous masters’ like they didn’t believe you were generous. Couldn’t have that. Had to prove you were by not getting in trouble with this stunt.”

A smile cracks like dawn on Bucky’s face, and a laugh bursts out, letting loose his nerves. “Oh, well, in that case, I thank you for defending my honor.”

Steve smiles, and looks around before asking, “This might not be the best place to ask but is your sister…?”

“Lavender is her favorite color,” Bucky explains. “And it also seems a weakness of Miss Jane.”

“Oh, wow,” Steve bounces on his heel. “I guess, they say it runs in families. Anyway, are we leaving soon?”

“Probably. About 1 o’clock is everyone’s limit.”

“See you then.” Steve walks away, and Bucky catches himself waving. He glances at the ceiling: there’s mistletoe above him.

#

Two days after the ball, Bucky, Hurst, Darcy, and Steve take up the Lucas’ invitation to hunt the winter birds. It is wet, muddy, and freezing outside. Their breath fogs in their faces while the snow crunches and thin ice snaps under their feet. The wooden ends of their rifles fit awkwardly into their shoulders, but the steel muzzles gleam in the weak morning light. Bucky loves it.

“Oh! She’s got a scent!” Sir Lucas says, moustache quivering in eagerness. “Go, girl, go!” He releases the bloodhound, and she bounds off, tongue lolling as she dives for a far frigid bush. For a moment, she disappears from sight, and Bucky fears the dog lost in the deep snowdrift, but up she jumps again, a brown spot against the white-draped forest.

Bucky tenses and raises his gun in anticipation: beside him, he can feel Darcy and Hurst mirror his actions. Everything is quiet except masculine breathing and dog snuffles.

Then: the dog bays. Then: as one, the men raise their weapons fully to the sky. Alarmed pigeons shoot like rockets into the gray void, and Bucky squeezes his trigger. An almighty bang erupts from his gun as a bullet lodges itself in a bird’s eye. In a flutter of wings, the life is his.

“Good shot!” Hurst shouts, already plodding through the snow, eager to gather their kills. “I must compliment your aim, brother!”

“Thankee,” Bucky smiles. Thrumming blood beats in his heart and in his cheeks. Exhilaration stalks his steps as he also goes to see, only to discover a narrow gully must be traversed before he can claim his prize.

“I saw another two go down,” Darcy notes. As Bucky is happy, Darcy is stiff, not really desiring to be out in this weather, even if he’s got three layers on. Going back to his friend, he links arms with him. It was kind of him to come nonetheless.

Steve, who’s surveying the gully, points and says, “Be careful when you get to there. I think that’s all snow.”

“Yes, yes, mother hen,” Bucky jokes and waves Steve off. The man has been unusually present in his quiet way: he’s excited by the hunting too. His gaze turns intense and peering when Bucky shoots, watching how each and every one of Bucky’s fingers handle the weapon, looks lingering over the butt against Bucky’s shoulders and the stance of his legs. It’s as alarming as it is arousing, to be the focus of Steve’s scrutiny. Bucky likes it all too much.

“It’s amazing how Lucas manages with one dog,” Darcy says, focusing Bucky’s mind back on upper-class manners and less on Steve’s wandering eye. “She’s very well-trained.”

Bucky tests a ledge downward and finds it un-iced. “I expect he works her hard and certainly keeps her healthy. He is very keen to be the best of gentlemen.”

Bucky tests another step and it’s clear too. Darcy follows and says, “It’s a wonder we haven’t seen Sir Lucas at Saint James’ before. He’s mentioned being there often.”

Bucky pulls Darcy into a small leap, and they’re at the gully floor. Darcy emits a small “oof” and Bucky preens and pretends nothing’s happened. “There’s lots of people there, I suppose.”

Steve looms above them, but then in a twinkling is at their side. “Allow me, sirs,” he says, taking Darcy’s free hand. Bucky’s face turns a brighter hot against the chill until he realizes that Steve is leading Darcy like a child up the gully’s other side, dropping the hand as soon as possible, and scampering back to hold Bucky’s own. Bucky squeezes tight. Brushing shoulders and twinning fingers, they climb.

Though Bucky walks purposefully slow, Steve and he must break apart again when they rejoin the gentlemen. The others circle and chat over a clutch of feathery corpses, Lucas having regained possession of his dog, and Steve quickly scoops and strings the birds across his back. Bucky admires the view as Steve bends to do this when a color out of place catches his eye.

Bucky blinks and re-focuses his gaze. How? “Sir Lucas,” Bucky interrupts the chatter, “have you lost a horse?”

“Pardon?” the gentleman says, alarmed. “What—”

“Oh lord,” Darcy says, in complete and total commiseration for how it would be easier to trap devils than to capture such a beast. “That’s quite a…specimen.”

Hurst splutters nonsense and well he should. Only slightly blocked by a line of young trees stands a huge, _huge_ horse. Bucky is not a short man and neither is Steve, but the creature towers over them both. Its coat is black as midnight with white, starry flecks, its mane is tangled with red berries, and it snorts and paws with an undeniable pride.

There’s no sign of a rider or saddle, and definitely in their favor is that horses tend to run away when threatened. Unlike goats.

An equally huge, pure white, and somehow six-horned goat charges at Bucky straight on, and the Bucky fails to notice this is happening until he is flat knocked on the ground with a distinct popping as ambient music. Hurst and Lucas flee in flustered indignation over stones, brambles, and snow towards the horse. Darcy yells and dives for Bucky, who is in the process of scrambling to his feet, but it is Steve Rogers who is most fantastic. Steve runs ahead of the goat, turns on his heel, bends, catches the monster by two of its horns, slides back a few inches, grits his teeth, and _throws_ the goat into the gully’s snowbank. There is a squeal, an awful crunching noise, and silence.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Darcy exclaims, understandably perturbed. He helps a wincing Bucky upwards, and Bucky manages the footing only to feel completely useless as Steve sweeps him off his well-earned foothold to carry him like a bride. Was it only a moment ago he delighted in Steve’s touch? Now he feels part humiliated and part very, very grateful. The other part, mostly around his left chest area, feels mostly pain. His left hand is also…not there.

“I can’t feel my arm,” Bucky says, feeling this is important. “Steve, I can’t feel it.”

“We’ve got to get him to a doctor,” Steve says. “Darcy, where’s the nearest?”

Darcy says, “Meryton, but it’s preposterous for you to run there with him. You’ll jostle his arm too much. He needs to be still.” Bucky is proud that Darcy and Steve are speaking and working together for the first time. He likes the look of mutual concern they share.

“Surely he will be more comfortable in my home,” Lucas protests. “Please feel free to rest there and I’ll send to Meryton.”

Darcy says, “That will do perfectly, thank you. Do you have brandy?”

“Plenty.”

“Excellent,” Hurst says.

“I meant for James,” Darcy clarifies, “for the pain. I heard his ribs break.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky says and immediately thinks that maybe the pain is causing him to be a little delirious.

“Hush,” Steve says, voice gentle.

Bucky closes his eyes and doesn’t open them for a long time.

#

The fuss is over. The doctor has come and gone. Lucas Lodge has come and gone. Bucky, though slightly insensible, insisted to return to Netherfield because, above all else, he desires the present, particular moment.

With an assuaged Caroline's permission and while still holding Bucky, Steve shuts the bedroom door with his foot. Bucky is not the only invalid in the house. The hunt, besides being enjoyable for Bucky and Hurst, had been an excuse to let Jane and Caroline visit with some privacy. Jane, from the scrambled tidbits Bucky’s mind can gather together, visited without the benefit of a carriage ride and arrived chilled and sneezing. Caroline set her up in one of the many guest bedrooms, maybe the creamy yellow one because yellow is cheery and matches Jane’s hair. In any case, Caroline is happy to return to Jane’s side, knowing her brother is being looked after by somebody else.

Steve lays Bucky on the bed as if he were spun of glass. Bucky regrets the loss of body warmth until deft, strong fingers undress him and settle the quilt. Bucky not only sees, but feels Steve move to step back, to put up the wall of distance between them. Bucky catches him by the sleeve. “Stay please. Here.” He smooths a palm over the blanket.

The bed gives a soft “umpfh” at the added weight, and Bucky enjoys the sight of Steve Rogers smiling ruefully in his bed. He thinks it’s the first time he’s seen this, but his gut nags that it isn’t. Steve props himself up on his elbow. “You know,” he says, “I know you can take a bigger beating than that and walk away fine.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Bucky says. “Is this connected to your mysterious past with me?”

“You can call it that,” Steve chuckles.

Bucky tries to turn to Steve, but pain skitters down his side, so he’s stuck. “Would you like to tell me what you mean? Or shall I continue wondering?”

Steve considers, his jaw tightening briefly. “Not yet. I’m not sure what will happen.”

“You think I won’t believe you?”

“Worse than that,” Steve says.

Bucky tries to divine the truth through Steve’s eyes, but comes up against an impenetrable blue shield. So: hazarding. “You find me lacking in strength to take the truth?”

“No!” Steve rushes to say. Fretting, he begins stroking Bucky’s hair. “Nothing like that, Buck.”

“All right,” Bucky says, shifting slightly to give Steve better access. “A secret for a secret, then?”

“If you want to tell me something, go ahead.”

That’s not exactly a promise, but Bucky’s been wanting to speak more about it anyway.

Bucky begins, “I was forced from Boston due to scandal—I’m from Boston, though the main bulk of the family used to be in New York City. Before the smallpox, my uncle went snooping about the family home after dark and discovered me with my lover.”

“Should I be jealous?” Steve asks.

Regret instantly flashes across Steve’s face. Bucky’s heart thumps in his ears. He licks his lips and continues before Steve does something foolish and takes back the statement, “He was no one very dear to me. It was more…relieving stress than anything else. In any case, it got my arse on the next boat and Caroline stood by me.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Two years ago this past June. It turns out the next boat out was the _USS Chesapeake_ and I was captured during the battle, along with the ship.”

Steve searches his memory and comes out, “The War of 1812?”

“Is that what they call it now? Yes, I was on it, though locked below like a prisoner. And then, during the voyage to England, I met a Captain Jack Aubrey and Doctor Stephen Maturin.”

“Those names don’t ring a bell. They weren’t commanders?”

“No, passengers caught in the crossfire like me. They were exceedingly kind to me and Caroline. They made sure we were treated well. They had a woman with them too, Dr. Maturin’s betrothed. And when the sailors got rowdy, staged a mutiny, and killed the captain, Caroline and I helped them reclaim the ship.”

Steve blanches at Bucky’s matter of fact tone, and Bucky relishes it. How’s that for weak?

Bucky continues, “We sailed that goddamn tub into Portsmouth ourselves. Jack even shared his prize money. Ever since then, I feel some instinct has been wakened within me, some battle-ready drive. It’s why I like hunting so much, when I didn’t before. I know how to fight. More importantly, I know how to win.”

Bucky expects respect or some new evaluation in Steve’s face, but instead is greeted with Steve’s lips. Steve presses into him firmly, insistently, and Bucky returns the kiss with languid longing. His stomach flutters, and he feels he’s floating out to space. Steve swipes his tongue across Bucky’s lips. “Steve?” Bucky says in a strangled hitch.

Steve breaks away from Bucky’s mouth to kiss his neck. “You really don’t remember me?” Steve whispers into his skin. “How could you forget?” He returns attention to Bucky’s mouth. Bucky kisses back and takes a breath and wants to breathe in Steve’s entire body.

All at once, Steve stops. “You need to sleep,” Steve says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#

Bucky wakes not in Steve’s arms, which would have been pleasant, but instead cushioned and tucked in so tight that he might as well be under lock and key. He can raise his head a little, but not much else. “Steve?”

“Right here.” Steve’s mushed blonde head raises itself to visibility over his footboard—the damn fool, he slept on his pallet.

Bucky wiggles meaningfully. “May I be released?”

Steve grins like the overgrown imp he is. “Maybe.”

Bucky goes for a dramatic sigh, and pain reprimands him. “And what, pray tell, must I do to satisfy my captor?”

“You’ve got to show me your bruise. Doctor said we needed to keep an eye on it.”

“Fine. Now let me out, you elfin devil.”

Steve, still in his shift, walks around and rolls Bucky over to untie whatever devilery he’s contrived to make Bucky feel mummified. The cloth releases, and Bucky crawls out. Steve takes his hand and lifts him to standing. “Help me with my clothes,” Bucky says, wanting to show Steve the bruise but not the whole anatomy, per se.

They go to the screen and begin their usual routine of Bucky tossing out his worn things and Steve chucking clean things from the wardrobe over the partition. Once his trousers are on, though, Bucky steps out to show off his new dash of color.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve says. “That goat knew how to hit.”

“What happened to that beast?” Bucky says. His memory is foggy from last night. He wanders over to his full length mirror, an oblong, silver gilded contraption. Turning, he almost admires the impressive bruising interplay of purple, blue, red, green, and yellow. The art engulfs the left side of his chest, tapering down at his left hip bone. It would make for a lovely color palette for a romantic or impressionistic painter wanting angry thunder clouds.

“That was a strange thing,” Steve says. “I went to check the snowbank where the goat fell, and it’s gone.”

Bucky frowns. “Gone?”

“Yep. No blood, no fur, no corpse, not even a trail. Like it had disappeared.”

“But it must have gone somewhere—beasts like that don’t simply vanish.”

Steve shrugs, as if unconcerned. Bucky peers at him. “You’re not telling me something again.”

Steve says nothing.

“ _And_ you left me last night to go investigating. That’s why I was so mummified.”

"It was worth a try."

Bucky turns back to the mirror, though this does little to avoid Steve’s sheepish expression. Bucky asks, “Well, what about the horse then? Lucas said it wasn’t his, so who’s missing a hulking hell-horse?”

“Nobody around here. I hit up a few places in Meryton, and nobody had heard anything.”

“Treasure that. The first time Meryton hasn’t gotten the long and short of a story.”

Bucky looks at himself more closely in the mirror. His skin isn’t broken except for a star-shaped slice near his left armpit, where a horn must have torn the skin. The cut was carefully wrapped in clean white linen bandages last night. This morning, however, they’re a dull red-brown. “I think these bandages need changing.”

“Let me have a look,” Steve says. With one warm hand, he lifts Bucky’s arm and examines. He tsks, “Should have wrapped you tighter.”

Bucky is aghast. “Did you just ‘tsk’ at me, Steve Rogers? Nobody has ‘tsk’-ed me since I ruined my Sunday clothes in a rain puddle when I was seven.”

“Well, you deserve it this time.”

“I did nothing wrong! I have been an angelic patient. You’re the one who went gallivanting.”

“Do you know how much you thrash in your sleep? I thought you were having a nightmare last night.”

Truth be told, he did have a nightmare, something involving snow and an awful lot of blood. But, indignant, Bucky draws himself up to his full height and narrows his eyes at his manservant. “I’ll have you know that I don’t like being trapped and I just admitted that to you as a fault and therefore you can’t make fun of me for it.”

Steve chooses not to reply to this whimsical statement in favor of unraveling the bandages and fetching the basket of tonic and healing paraphernalia the doctor left. Not questioning how the thing found its way to his room, Bucky braces for more pain as Steve blots the blood, cleans it out with Saint John’s Wort, applies further poultice, and wraps it up like a Christmas present in clean linen.

“You do efficient work,” Bucky says. “You weren’t a medic were you?” He wrinkles his nose at this. It seems wrong. Steve builds; he rarely mends.

“Nah, just needed a lot of doctoring myself,” Steve laughs.

“Well then, if I’m excused, Not-Doctor Rogers,” Bucky says, bowing to Steve in mock respect. The last thing he sees before escaping behind the screen again is Steve’s smile.

After dressing, they make their way downstairs to find Louisa, Mr. Hurst, and Darcy already at breakfast. “Good morning all,” Bucky says.

Darcy nods his welcome and pulls the opinion section out of the newspaper for Bucky to read. With Steve’s help, Bucky sits and it’s only after a quarter hour’s steady draught of coffee, toast, bacon, and boiled egg that the penny drops.

“Darcy, where’s Caroline?”

“Hmmm?” Darcy, who’s passed his remaining newspaper sections to Mr. Hurst (who, accordingly, passed the social section to his wife), blinks at Bucky with placid interest. This is obviously deceiving. When Darcy appears distracted yet calm, he’s thinking deeply on a subject.

Bucky is seized with sympathy for pearl divers. They know what it’s like to dredge something from the depths. He prods his friend. “Caroline. My sister. You live with her.”

Darcy makes an inarticulate noise before saying, “What about her?”

“Where is she this morning? I’ve eaten nearly all my breakfast, and nobody’s said a single disparaging thing.”

“She’s taking care of Miss Bennet in the yellow room,” Darcy nearly sighs out. “How are you? Have you imbibed enough coffee to be talked to?”

Bucky inwardly cheers. “Ah, that’s what my breakfast was missing. Steve changed my bandage this morning, just as the doctor ordered. My bruise looks very dreadful, but does not hurt much.”

“That’s good to hear. I had a thought about your library earlier today.”

“Oh, yes! Please advise.”

“Have you heard of Mary Wollstonecraft, the authoress? Her main work is _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_. It was quite controversial when it was first published, but times have changed. I spotted a copy on Sir Lucas’ bookshelf, and the thought came to my mind.”

“A vindication,” Bucky says, rolling the word on his tongue and against his teeth. “I believe Caroline will love it. She had quite the outré Christine de Pizan phase in her youth. She almost burned the Shakespeare when she read _The Taming of the Shrew_.”

Darcy’s lips twitch in amusement. “I see.”

While Bucky would be happy to tease out the laugh hidden away and tell more stories of his sisters, a servant chooses this moment to walk in, stately and dignified. He announces, “A Miss Elizabeth Bennet to see you, sirs and madam.”

“Elizabeth?” Darcy starts and jumps out of his seat as if to flee. Alarmed, Bucky fails to push his friend back down before the lady enters, so everyone is obliged to stand.

Elizabeth enters looking like a wood nymph. While not intimidated by the marble hallways or gold trim, her skirt sports mud, her hair is windswept, and her fine eyes glint in an enticing darkness. She bobs her curtsey like a bird on a branch.

They all return the gesture. Before Bucky can say anything, Louisa spits out bile, “Good lord, Miss Elizabeth, did you walk here?”

The wood nymph shows her teeth. “I did.”

“Can your family never afford the carriage?”

“Louisa,” Bucky quietly hisses at her. Louder to Elizabeth, “You look all the more beautiful for walking, Miss Bennet. You must want to ensure your sister is well.”

Elizabeth downright transforms into kindness when her gaze rests on Bucky, and he is glad for it. “Yes, where is she?”

“Upstairs,” Darcy blurts out. “W-would you care for some refreshment?”

“Yes, before you see her, he means,” Bucky says. “My own sister is upstairs minding Miss Jane Bennet. While I orchestrate the changing of the nursemaids, please take my place at the table. I’m quite finished.”

Elizabeth tries to protest, but Bucky assures and herds her into his seat. He catches Steve’s eye, and the pair of them bow/invisibly walk out the door before anyone can protest.

“Are we going to warn them?” Steve asks, voice low and deep in Bucky’s ear. Goosebumps raise down Bucky’s neck.

“Nothing so dangerous,” Bucky says. “We’re only going to make sure their clothes are on.”

#

Their clothes were indeed on, though their hair a little disheveled, which was acceptable in Jane, but not Caroline. Bucky had intercepted not a minute too soon, as Elizabeth, in a fit of laudable familial loyalty, had somehow extricated herself from Darcy’s muddlings after devouring only a spot of toast.

“Jane!” the wood nymph cries, rushing to sit at her sister’s bedside.

“Lizzy,” the maiden says, smiling, closing her eyes in pleasure, letting her sister caress her face and affirm her wellness.

Caroline looks like she’s swallowed a particularly tart lemon. Bucky arches an eyebrow and gives the slightest of shrugs. He can’t prevent sisters from caring for one another, and his regret is blunted by the convenience of having both his sister’s and Darcy’s beaus in the same house.

Jane must also notice Caroline’s expression. “Caroline has been very kind to me, Lizzy,” she says. “I want for nothing here.”

“What has the doctor been saying? He’s been called, correct?” Lizzy asks, still addressing Jane.

Caroline answers, her tone icy. “It’s a simple cold. The doctor recommended rest, hot soup, and these botanical tablets every six hours. I’ve been giving them to her. We were in the middle of a noodle broth with chicken when you came in.”

Lizzy’s eyes dart from Caroline to Jane and back again. Bucky, for the first time, notices a little table Caroline has laid out beside her with soup, water, handkerchiefs, a pill bottle, and a book.

Seeing Caroline’s obvious care, Lizzy’s countenance softens. “Shall I help you then?”

The offer of help and slight submission in Elizabeth’s tone seems to mollify Caroline’s sense of dominion. “Would you ring the maid for a fresh water basin please? I thought to cool her forehead.”

Elizabeth nods, and soon the ladies are trading stories about treatments and past illnesses. Bucky listens to their discussion for a full quarter hour, before realizing his own ribs need attention, or at least for him to sit down. “I shall leave you ladies to your nursing,” Bucky says. “Miss Jane, I’m glad you’re ill.”

Four pairs of perplexed eyes stare at him. “Er,” Bucky stumbles. “I mean, I’m not glad you’re ill, but that you’re ill…here. With us.”

The smiles all three ladies flash at him are near blinding. Steve tries not to giggle.

#

A week later, Jane and Elizabeth return home, with looks of regret all around. Well, Elizabeth had more of a perplexed confusion at Darcy’s various attempts to flirt. Caroline could not very well insist on new acquaintances staying longer, not with the closed society of Meryton watching. As the Bennet carriage rolls out of Netherfield’s drive, Bucky knows he will have to invent a new reason to visit the family. Caroline’s looking downright wistful.

A day after the sisters return to Longbourn, Bucky hears the news that “The War of 1812” as Steve calls it, has ended. He decides to celebrate the American victory by taking a slow ride with Darcy into the winter countryside. Steve, the athletic man he is, walks along to Bucky’s left, hand at the ready on the horse’s shoulder.

As soon as they start on a proper woodland path and therefore are out of earshot from Netherfield, Darcy says, “You’re not going to be very popular for a few months.” Bucky hears the unsure concern waver in Darcy’s voice.

“It could be worse: I could be French.”

Darcy trots his mount up to Bucky’s right, so their horses walk side by side. Bucky watches the horses’ breath mingle in the frost as they ride in companionable silence. He likes the feel of the horse’s gait under his hips, how it makes him sway, or rock like child in cradle.

“So you fear nothing? From Meryton at least?”

“While my accent may net me a few vile looks, I doubt the scandal will last more than a season. Old Boney is still out there and sells more newspapers.”

“How do you—how does the American victory take you? Are you…proud?”

Bucky knows what Darcy’s driving at. The United States is Bucky’s home, no matter how much he’s adopted English habits in the past few years. “I’m unsure how I feel,” Bucky says, “A little sad, I suppose.”

“That the English lost?”

Bucky grins. “No, that I’m not in Boston to celebrate.”

Darcy laughs with a violence so sudden that his horse startles and dances away. "Damn your American sensibilities."

"Mr. Darcy, that was a slur against God," Bucky says, mock-indignant. "You had better go straight to church."

And confess what? That my friend is a rude American?"

“That’s right: tell that priest only compliments to my character. You may embellish them as you like,” Bucky dismisses.

The mood continues much improved and bright as the path opens up to follow a winter-swollen river on the outskirts to Meryton. As they walk, Bucky spots a cluster of people underneath a large tree on the opposite bank. As they draw close, Bucky recognizes the figures.

“The Miss Bennets!” he calls across the river’s sound. “Good morning!”

“It is afternoon!” one of the younger ones—Kitty?—teases.

“But a pleasure to see you all the same!” Jane calls back. She is wrapped in brown furs, but her yellow hair curls and frames her face like something out of Renaissance art. Jane steps closer to the riverbank like a January-blessed Titania.

Bucky says, “Miss Bennet, you are out and about in the snow! Are you well enough for that?”

“Quite, sir. Thank you for your concern. How is your sister?”

He knows exactly which sister she means. “Caroline is well. She’s planning a ball as we speak.”

“A ball!” the other young one shrieks. “Oh, Mr. Buchannan, that would be marvelous! Look at the ribbons I just bought.” She begins dancing around the tree while rapidly waving red and silver ribbons.

The floating silks catch his attention. “Oh—oh my. Very pretty,” Bucky says, The symmetry of the colors—red and silver…. They go well together. He shakes his head. “I approve.”

Bucky swallows and finds words again, “You are all invited to the ball, of course, but—may I ask—who is the gentleman with you, Miss Bennet?”

A dowdy, pot-bellied man on spindly legs squats like a black kettle near the group. “Oh, forgive me, that is Mr. Collins, our cousin,” Jane says. “He is visiting from Rosings. Mr. Collins, this is Mr. Buchannan and Mr. Darcy of Netherfield Park.”

The men exchange hat-touches. Cousin? Hopefully a married cousin. One who happened to leave his wife at home when his relatives invited him on country walks. “And,” Jane continues, “We have made a new friend in Meryton. Lizzy!”

In response, Lizzy appears as if fairy-summoned from behind the tree. Behind her, walking as mortals do, is a man in a bright red militia uniform.

Lydia and Kitty pounce on him. “This is Mr. Wickham,” they cheer, while Bucky’s blood runs cold.

Now, Bucky had heard many, many stories of Wickham, had spent long nights extracting tales from Darcy, one thimbleful of cognac at a time. But Bucky’d never seen him, which is just as well, because his mad, glittering eyes, his raven locks, and thin, fine fingers might be his death. Jane may be Titania, but this is Oberon.

The sight of George Wickham fills him with unnamed, icy dread. His chest contracts, and his ribs flare in harsh, bruising pain. Suddenly, Steve is there, hand on his leg. Warmth. “Bucky? You okay?”

Steve can’t see Wickham, can’t understand. Darcy is rigid as a crop, and bends only to touch his hat. Bucky follows suit, and the pair turn their horses and gallop.

Steve, miraculous Steve, keeps pace. “Bucky, we won’t get very far this way.”

He’s right that cantering in the snow is not good for the horses, but Bucky needs the woods to rush past like this, for the trees to wave as they fade away. He sits back and collects the horse’s gait, Darcy doing the same. A turn in the path approaches, one that will lead them sharp east.

“Bucky—”

“Ride on, Darcy! I’m enjoying this!” Bucky shouts ahead. The wind tangles in his hair, the saddle soft as he scoops across it, encouraging the speed. He collects again as they pirouette the bend and the woods opens onto—

Netherfield Park.

Bucky must not be the only one noticing this sudden loop, because Darcy slows his mount to a walk. Bucky halts with an abruptness that would topple a lesser rider, but his horse merely shakes its head afterward, asking for more rein if they’re going back to a sedate walk.

“Have we turned around?” Darcy asks.

“I wasn’t aware that we did,” Bucky says. “But we must have. It took us nearly two hours to get to Meryton, but perhaps we were really going in a rather large circle.”

“Hertfordshire isn’t this small,” Darcy insists. “Let’s re-trace our steps.”

“It’s no use,” Steve mutters.

For the next hour, Darcy and Bucky examine the path. The turn looks ordinary and definitely seems to head east from Meryton on the approach, which should take them towards East Anglia, far from Netherfield or the town. However, as they walk around the bend, they are returned five miles west and approach Netherfield. They do this over and over again, with the same result. Steve watches with amusement that gradually changes to exasperation.

“If I may, sirs,” he says, bowing. “A demonstration.” From the Netherfield side, he begins to walk. “I’m walking east, right? Now, watch carefully.”

Steve walks away from them, but then Bucky must blink because in a flash Steve is walking towards them again. “We can’t go further east,” Steve explains, as if this is perfectly natural. “I checked.”

“What sort of magic is this?” Darcy says. The gentleman is tired, frustrated, and cold. Anger thrums in his voice. “Why did you turn around?”

“You try it,” Steve says. Realizing his mistake, he adds, “sir.”

Steve holds Darcy’s horse while the gentleman walks east and is abruptly pushed back around. He blinks. “What?”

“This is ridiculous,” Bucky says. “Let me try.”

He dismounts and meets with the same result. One moment he is facing the empty park and sky, the next he is facing Darcy, Steve, and the annoyed horses.

“I…I must have hit my head,” Darcy says. “The shock of seeing…of seeing Wickham again.”

“The shock…?” Bucky says. “Can people acquire collective shock?”

Steve shakes his head, but hands Darcy the reins all the same. When he returns to Bucky’s side, he whispers, “A world with boundaries is not a real world.”

Bucky shakes his head too.

#

Bucky can’t stand it anymore. The Netherfield ball is a torture. Yes, Jane dances prettily; yes, Darcy gets up the courage to ask Elizabeth to dance; yes, Caroline subtly flirts with both Charlotte Lucas and Jane Bennet; but the question of Steve, the question of his curious remark, is driving him insane. He cannot think of anything else.

Bucky closes his bedroom door behind him with a satisfying slam.

“Bucky—” Steve begins.

He refuses to let Steve finish. In one movement, he grabs Steve close and crushes their lips together. He sucks in Steve’s gasp, and eases the pressure only to greedily press other flesh full against the man.

He wraps his arms around Steve’s torso and lifts so they can continue kissing this close, and Steve responds with eager hunger. But it’s not enough—it’s not enough that his head spins, his stomach flutters with embers, and his cock roils in lust. He wants to drain out Steve’s life, like some gothic novel’s vampyre. He knows he can—the familiarity eggs him on.

Just as Steve seems to settle in to a standing kiss, Bucky looses their contact and whispers, “Now you must tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Steve reaches forward to kiss, but Bucky backs away again.

“Where are you from, Mr. Rogers?” Bucky touches their foreheads and tantalizes with a peck. “How do I know you?”

Steve’s breath shutters and shakes out. “That’s a long story.”

“We have time,” Bucky says, cool in tone, but firming his grip. He lets a kiss punctuate the next sentence. “Tell me. Where. You’re. From.”

Steve releases a long, lover’s sigh. “Brooklyn.”

“New York?”

“I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

“Mmmmmhmmm. And would ‘just a kid from Brooklyn’ appreciate this?” Bucky undoes the Steve’s cravat with deft fingers and watches Steve’s adam’s apple bob. He shirks Steve’s jacket and flicks each waistcoat button open. This too, slides to Bucky’s floor. One shirt more and Steve’s chest is bare and Bucky can feel Steve’s heart beat bird-like under his palms. “Oh my. Shall I be the servant tonight?”

Steve closes his eyes and leans into the touch. The man is really quite starved.

Quick as the thought comes, Bucky flits away, gathering up Steve’s dropped clothes and folding them properly onto his writing desk. He smirks at Steve’s flabbergasted, bereft expression, though it makes his heart crack soon enough that he offers direction. “Go by the bed, punk.”

Steve gives a weak smile and does as told. Bucky disposes of the clothes covering his own upper half, careful to leave the boots and trousers on. He crowds into Steve’s space and drags knuckles up from Steve’s thigh to his nipples before rapping on his chest twice. “Now, where were we? Ah, I believe you were about to tell me something.”

Steve is about to say something no doubt evasive when Bucky palms Steve’s cock through Steve’s trousers. Instead of avoiding the question, Steve’s entire body arches, and his neck inexplicably leans back to face the ceiling. Bucky’s mouth goes dry. Steve is half-hard already.

“So quiet, yet so sensitive,” Bucky remarks, licking his lips. He experimentally palms again, and Steve’s leg twitches as Steve’s hips move forward to give Bucky better access. Bucky leans in, lets his breath dance down Steve’s exposed collar bones to raise goose flesh. He pitches his voice a timber lower. “If you’re from Brooklyn, how did you know me in Romania? That’s the only place I’ve used the name ‘Bucky.’”

Steve whimpers, and his cock stiffens further. Using his unoccupied hand, Bucky flicks Steve’s nipples, roughening them up to erect hardness. “I’ve never b-been to Romania,” Steve confesses.

“Ah, I must have told you then. How did we meet?” Buck asks. He flicks Steve’s nearest nipple. Repeatedly.

“It—it was in—ha!—the city,” Steve trembles out. Bucky palms Steve in earnest now. The words tumble out: “In Brooklyn. We were—were—kids. Our-parents-knew-each-other. We played ball in the park.”

“Good boy,” Bucky says. He smiles and undoes the buttons to Steve’s trousers. “I think you ought to be rewarded for that.”

Bucky holds the full length of Steve in his hand. Letting memory-but-not-quite-memory be his guide, he gives long, squeezing strokes. Steve’s knees buckle.

“Ah ha, no falling,” Bucky chides. “We must solider on.”

Bucky presses close again, nestling his head in Steve’s shoulder so he can whisper in the man’s ear. “And how did you find me here? I’m quite grateful for the company, you know.” They are, literally, pressing flesh at this point, and Bucky’s own erogenous skin is tingling, hardening, and wanting. He again breathes into Steve’s neck and inhales Steve’s mannish, clear scent. It’s now tinged with shoe polish, cigars, and gun oil.

“I—tripped.”

Bucky laughs “You tripped?” He increases the rapidity and pressure on Steve’s manhood.

Steve’s knees quaver; his voice sounds like it’s trapped. “Through a door.”

Steve’s cock leaks. Bucky whispers, lower. “And that act sent you to England.”

The “yes” escapes Steve like a man out of prison, and the man stumbles into Bucky’s arms. “Lord save me.”

“I’m not a lord yet—” Steve kisses Bucky like he’s the last free man on earth. Bucky feels a frisson down his spine, like the kerosene burn of when they first met. Images shutter and flit through Bucky’s mind, scenes of the falsity Steve describes: a tinier blond boy struggling to lift a baseball bat; a crackling, shifting sound coming out of a box; the warmth and smell of chicken kiev in a tenement’s secondhand oven.

Bucky can’t stop kissing to ask about these though. His entire being is flushed with heat, near scorching in his cock. He feels heavy, and the pressure to release and spend unbearable.

“Turn over,” Bucky orders. He barely recognizes his voice: it is like a wolfish growling.

Steve finally— _finally_ —makes a sound: a distinct whimper. His cock is upright and leaking profusely, even more visible when Steve wiggles his trousers further down, and Bucky fears merely rutting against the bedsheets will end the game too soon.

Bucky has oil somewhere. He fumbles to find it in his writing desk, but slicks himself with sufficient dexterity. Without further ado, he mounts his manservant.

Steve keens so loud that it’s like he’s been saving all his noise for one sound. He rises to meet Bucky’s cock, stretching onto his knees and palms. “Oh God.”

Heat—impossibly more heat—coils around Bucky’s cock. More flashes: he remembers the cold; cold tables and knives. Great, great pain. Bucky reaches and bites Steve’s shoulder, reaches with arms to slide up and down the perfectly sculpted chest.

Steve has been toyed with for so long that he’s now impatient. Nipples satisfy him no longer. Though Bucky holds him entire, he struggles to establish friction.

“Oh, is that how it is,” Bucky says, saucy. He straightens, letting his fingers trail before gripping Steve’s hips. “I suppose you’ve been a good solider.”

Bucky thrusts hard, and Steve only comes back for more. The musk of sex fills Bucky’s nose as he pumps, purposefully not hitting Steve’s joy to prolong the moment. Steve downright jibbers madness; Bucky’s eyes flick and feather through images and sensations not entirely his own.

His left arm is gone. His left arm is cold metal. A red room. A ballet. Antiseptic stings. Guns heavy in his hands; gloves thick with gore. The smell of shit and fresh corpses. Muscles burning with overuse. The wet, sticky feeling of mud on his face. Winds bringing the smell of fry oil and gas and grease. The hum of machines. The snip of scissors against his head.

Bucky shouts with horror and pleasure all at once. He spills like a bull into Steve, thrusting still, finding Steve’s sweet spot and pressing, pressing, pressing.

Then, Bucky sees white and feels like he’s sent onto another plain of existence. Steve’s sobs are the only thing that breaks through.

He comes down to a reality of Steve shuddering through pleasure’s height still, clutching the coverlet like it’s a lifeline. He waits for the shakes to cease before he pulls out and carefully removes the remains of trousers and boots. It is only once they are both fully naked that he crawls into Steve’s waiting arms.

He settles his ear against Steve’s breast and listens to the strong heart beat. He feels sleepy, but he doesn’t want to sleep yet. Steve strokes his cheek.

They are silent for awhile, but Bucky can feel something trying to escape his mouth. Words. Words are teasing and longing to leave his lips. But what words? What does he need to say?

After a moment of concentration, Bucky asks, “Was your mother’s name Sarah?”

Steve starts. He lifts Bucky’s gaze to meet his, blue eyes searching. “Bucky?”

“I…remember,” Bucky says, slow. “I remember things when you touch me.”

“Oh my God,” Steve says, disbelief and happiness in equal measure. He kisses Bucky’s forehead, his cheeks, the spot behind his nearest ear. “What do you remember?”

“It’s the winter of the solider.” No, that’s—

“Winter Solider,” Steve corrects. He kisses Bucky full on the mouth, letting a breath out. “What else?”

A glimpse of a red-haired woman. “Natalia Romanova. Она мояOna moya.”

“Not while we’re in bed, Bucky.” Steve shifts from underneath Bucky and gets on his hand and knees to look down at Bucky’s face. Steve begins a trail of kisses at Bucky’s jaw and moves down his neck to chest to stomach to groin. He buries his face in Bucky’s nether curls and inhales their scent.

Bucky feels his cock stir, and he thinks his heart skips a beat. Confusion writes itself on his face as he grasps inward, trying to remember more things. “There was a war. You were—you were in it. You wanted to be in it. So badly.”

“Yes, yes,” Steve agrees. He teethes at Bucky’s healing ribs, little biting pinpricks against Bucky’s skin. Bucky’s breath hitches.

“You’re….”

“Come on, Buck.”

Bucky’s head is filling with impossible things. There wasn’t just one World War, but two. Radios and telegraphs and submarines and airplanes. Projected light on screens with no sound or color and then both. The 107th. Commandos that scream—howl. Special team. So much jazz.

Steve sucks at nipples, glides muscled fingers up and down Bucky’s torso.

“Peggy Carter.”

Steve downright growls. “I am _not_ Peggy Carter.”

“No, you’re something with stripes.”

Steve barks a laugh. “Should I sing Yankee Doodle? Again?”

“That might hel—”

Steve swallows down his cock.

“Captain America!” Bucky shouts.

#

Bucky wakes up to somebody hissing in his ear.

“James! What the devil can you be thinking?” Darcy hisses. “Get up!”

Bucky rubs his face with his right hand—he knows his left is flesh now, but the fact has yet to sink in amongst all the other facts. “What is it?” he mumbles.

“You are _lying_ with your _manservant_ and both of you are _naked,_ ” Darcy hisses.

“Darcy, what does that—” His brain jolts back to itself, to where he is, to when he is.

He bolts upright in bed and assesses the damage. Steve has an arm draped over Bucky’s stomach, and a leg tangled with his. These parts of his skin tingle with hyperaware embarrassment. Steve, all innocent blue eye blinks and fluffy blond bedhead, is slowly coming awake, and the scene makes Bucky’s heart clench.

Also, Fitzwilliam Darcy from his real life sister’s favorite novel _Pride & Prejudice_ is standing over his bed looking royally pissed off.

“Um,” Bucky says. With a farewell pat to Steve’s head, he extricates himself and dashes to his wardrobe.

“ _Um_? ‘Um,’” Darcy repeats. “I find you in bed with your servant after you swore to Jesus Christ and Lord Almighty that you would not bed anyone until your sister got married and all you can say is ‘um’?”

Bucky’s fingers shake as he manages on small clothes. Steve, who is halfway awake by now, asks, “Are we in trouble?”

“ _You’re_ not,” Darcy says, pointing a condescending finger to Steve. His angered gaze and digital accusation turns on Bucky, who winces. “Your lover is.”

“Look, Darcy, it was really important.”

“Caroline is very important! Did you forget about her? You promised!”

“Darcy, the world is—at stake!”

“That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“Wait,” Steve interrupts. “You don’t care that Bucky’s gay?”

Darcy snorts ungentlemanly. “I have little care if Bucky finds amusement at parties or that he’s an invert. I am sometimes too.”

“Oh,” Steve says, looking deflated. “But I thought….”

“Discretion is needed for the servants and guests,” Darcy explains, dismissive. “But no one was going to intrude on you two today. Everyone knows the day after a ball is reserved for sleeping, and if James needed anything, it was assumed you’d fetch it for him.”

Bucky is dressed in full stockings, trousers, boots, and shirt at this point, and he starts throwing clothes at Steve. “Have you told Caroline yet?”

“The only reason I’m in here and not her is due to an hour’s pleading.”

“Fuck,” Bucky swears, and Darcy reprimands him with a single look.

“Finish dressing,” Darcy orders. “We have the drawing room ready with breakfast. When you both come in, we’ll dismiss the servants and discuss this frankly.”

Darcy goes to leave, but Bucky catches his arm. Giving it a squeeze, Bucky says, “Thank you.”

Darcy blinks in wonderment and a mollified look comes to his eyes. He breaks their gaze. “You are my friend,” he says, quiet.

With a click, Darcy’s gone. Bucky returns his attention to dressing when he feels Steve’s hands on his arms and a kiss on his shoulder. Steve asks, “What was that about?”

Bucky leans back into Steve’s warm bulk. “Do you remember Boston marriages?”

“Yeah, we were considering one for…after.” He means after WWII ended, but that’s an ending neither of them really got.

“It’s like that,” Bucky says. “I was going to marry someone Caroline wanted to be with, and she was going to marry someone I wanted to be with. They call them ‘lavender marriages’ here.”

Bucky can almost hear Steve connecting the dots. “Ah. So when Darcy found you with me….”

“Caroline can’t marry a servant, so me sleeping with you makes her do a nervous jitterbug. There’s also the risk of scandal, which is a killer in this era. The situation is delicate.” That’s weird. All his accents are mixed up. That’d be useful in the field, but it gives himself a headache.

“So what she going to be like when we get to the drawing room?” Steve asks.

“Mostly disappointed, scared, and insecure.”

“So angry.”

"Yep, veeeeeerrrrrryyyy angry."

#

Despite being occupied by the warm personalities of Darcy and Caroline, the atmosphere in the drawing room is icy. After they enter and do the polite bowing, Caroline dismisses the servants with a flick of her fan, a fan she is decidedly not using to hide her glare of rage. When the doors click closed, and Bucky braces himself in the following frigid breath of silence.

Caroline’s opening gambit: “Why, Steven, do sit down, since you’re one of us.”

Oh god. Dramatics. “Caroline….”

Caroline smacks her fan against her thigh. “No, really, James, isn’t that how one becomes a gentleman? By _cavorting_ with a gentleman of higher station in the bedchamber? By _consummating a relationship_? Judging by your tendencies, Steven’s practically an earl now.”

Steve fidgets at his post by the door, and then his expression goes military neutral. He will not react to anything unwisely. A flare of anger sparks in Bucky’s gut. This isn’t the real Steve, the feisty one who’d rather go face first into a trashcan than hear the army besmirched. His jaw tightens. “His name is Steve.”

“Oh good, I can get that right now. I should know my brother-in-law.”

“Look, what are you really upset about, Caroline? That you haven’t boinked Jane yet?”

“James!” Darcy says—that’s his role, intermediary. “I don’t know what you’re doing with that verb, but it sounded unkindly. You’re the one who broke your promise.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Steve is a special circumstance.”

Caroline arches an eyebrow. “I thought I was special, James. I want to contribute to this family. I want to do my duty and see our line last longer and better, just as Father wanted it too. Now, neither of us can help our inversion, but we need to struggle together to do the best we can. And you sleeping with a servant jeopardizes all that!”

Bucky springs up and paces the room. “You think I don’t know? I work so hard for you, dear sister.” He sneers the last part. “And what have you done for me? Not—not that I would want you to now,” he adds hastily, glancing at Steve, who smirks for half a millisecond.

“A lady can not simply go up to a gentleman and ask his preference!” Caroline retorts, snapping her fan. Her eyes glitter with anger at her brother.

“Oh goodness, it might actually require delicacy!” Bucky says, waving his hands in awe. “You might have to talk to people nicely. What a struggle!”

Darcy reprimands, as Bucky knew he would, “Not everyone is possessed with your gifts, James. And the obstacles Caroline mentions are very real.”

“Don’t get me started on you, Darcy,” Bucky rounds on him. “You let the love of your life walk out of this house without so much as a second dance.”

Darcy goes white as a sheet. “Pardon?” Caroline says, startled out of her intent focus on herself. “Darcy is in love?”

Bucky crosses his arms and leans into his friend’s face. “Oh yes, he is. And she has such very fine eyes….”

“ _Elizabeth Bennet_?” Caroline says with incredulity so high-pitched that Bucky winces. She places a hand on Darcy’s arm. “You can’t be serious, dear?”

“I have no intent to pursue her at this point in time,” Darcy grinds out through clenched teeth.

Bucky lets out an exasperated sigh. “You know what? I’m going to hunt.”

Caroline’s attention audibly snaps back to her brother. “Not until you apologize and promise to never do it again.”

Darcy takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to its gentlest, most rumbly pitch, “And if I may suggest, my dear friend, that perhaps we ought to find Mr. Rogers another situation for the time being.”

Bucky stops moving because his heart lurches to the vicinity of his tonsils. “Absolutely not.”

“I think it would be best,” Darcy says. “After all, you’ve not known Mr. Rogers very long. Perhaps some distance would do you good. You’ve become attached very quickly, and we cannot be familiar with the entirety of his character.”

Bucky grabs Steve with one hand and the doorknob with another. “I’ve known this man for ninety years.”

He doesn’t wait for Caroline and Darcy to react. He walks out the door and heads for the stables, trailing a triumphant Captain.

When they reach the stables, Bucky orders the groom to saddle one horse for a day’s ride. As they wait, Steve sidles close. “So what’s the plan?”

Bucky taps his foot in impatience, “So there’s this Wickham character right?”

“Yeah. He tried to run off with Darcy’s sister.”

“He’s Loki.”

Steve blanches. “Thor’s brother?”

“Yep. I saw him before the ball, but I didn’t recognize him ‘cause…ya know. You briefed on Asgardians?”

Steve chuckles. “I’ve fought against them my fair share of times. Loki devastated Manhattan a few years back. It got the Avengers together. Did you hear about that?”

Bucky’s mind rushes through memories. How many years can one brain fit? Turns out a lot, but the Battle of New York he only experienced through grainy Hydra videos. There hadn’t been a clear camera shot of Steve’s face, though the costume had flickered in his dreams for weeks after. “I was in cryo. You got any tips for beating this cad—asshole?” Damn accent.

“He’s magical, but on the physical front he’s lacking. Banner beat him pretty easily. The problem is getting close, but between the two of us….”

Bucky follows Steve’s line of thinking. “I could snipe while you do frontal. He’s probably having a good jaw at the army barracks in Meryton. You could say that you have a message from Mr. Buchannan and an invitation to visit ASAP, considering our mutual acquaintances.”

Steve is frowning; Steve doesn’t like something that he sees. “We need him alive, Bucky. We gotta get him to undo this thing,” he says. “Unless you want to stay in a regency novel.” Bucky doesn’t answer, but leads Steve to the gunroom. Steve catches Bucky’s hand, and Bucky stiffens before reminding himself they’re alone. “You do have a pretty great life here.”

Bucky shakes out of Steve’s grasp. “It’s not a real world. It’s got limits. And who knows what Loki is planning at the end of the story. Do we start at the beginning again? Do we all die? No way I’m going to get killed or stuck in some goddamn loop.”

Bucky takes three of his best rifles, grumbling about how long they take to load. He hands Steve three pistols. All this feels familiar in a comfortable way, which is nice after all the annoyance. They return to the stable. If the groom has any concerns about how well-armed they are, he doesn’t say anything to Bucky’s face. Bucky mounts the ready horse and urges it to a trot. Steve easily jogs beside them.

“Hey, hey, this is a capture mission,” Steve says as soon as they’re out of the earshot. “No rush. He doesn’t know that we figured this out.”

“He’s a jerk god who created a pocket universe, Steve. I’m sure he knows exactly what’s going on.”

“Okay, so he knows, which is going to make extraction and interrogation more difficult. Is there any other reason you’re rushing into this? One minute you were yelling at your sister and now you’ve got a lot of ammo.”

They’re out of sight of the house by now, nearing the forest. Bucky halts and turns in the saddle to Steve standing below him. He notes the worried lines of Steve’s mouth, his squinted eyes, and the crinkle in his brow. And yet, as Bucky asked, he’s got two hunting pistols strapped to his hips and the third pointed down and away. Safe. Competent. Ready. Bucky sighs, and looks at the road ahead. “I’m just so tired of people messing with me. It’s been too long since my mind was my own.”

He feels Steve’s hand on his thigh. “I’m with you,” Steve says. “It’s not all bad.”

Bucky can’t bear to see Steve now. He grunts and offers a hand up. With some struggle, Steve swings up behind Bucky. “Hold on with your legs,” Bucky says. He tightens his grip on the reins and gives the horse the signal to canter.

They make it to Meryton in good time, and Steve is obliged to dismount just short of the city center, so no one sees master and servant in such a familiar position. They then continue at a walk. People bustle past as usual, but Bucky notices something strange.

“Their faces,” Steve says quietly, gaze flicking around. “Loki’s magic must be running low.”

Goosebumps prickle up Bucky’s neck. Everyone’s face is blank. Literally. Flesh stretches over where eyes and nostrils and mouths should be, and nobody bats their non-existent eye. Communication also seems un-hindered, as servants still barter with merchants, and ladies still lean together like conspirators armed with gossip. Bucky hopes against logic that Darcy and Caroline haven’t ended up like this. He tells Steve, “Or Loki isn’t bothering with the pretense anymore.”

The eerie feeling persists as they walk. It reminds Bucky of a play. They had those occasionally, in the Red Room. It was to practice different personas. These people are all inter-changeable background characters. Their job is to mumble at the farthest end of the stage and provide atmosphere. You aren’t meant to notice them. You’re supposed to notice the true actor, the target at the end of the line—

Ah. There he is. Right in the middle of the street.

Loki of Asgard wears the same green and black leather BDSM costume from the training videos Bucky’s watched, minus the staff. His hair looks like it’s made of raven wings, sticking out sleek and long at the sides, and his pale, thin face only brings out the glittering madness of his eyes. Bucky knows that look because he’s worn it himself. At least the street is conveniently clear of civilians.

“Gentlemen,” Loki greets, hands out in welcome. “I hope you’ve enjoyed my game.”

In a movement as graceful and easy as the waltz, Bucky shoots Loki right between the eyes. Steve’s cry of “Bucky!” and Bucky’s growl of “bastard!” clash loudly in the street. Loki’s image flickers and disappears to reappear five feet to the left. Bucky shoots that too, and the third one that pops up to the right.

“Show yourself!” Bucky shouts. “What was the point of this?”

With an audaciousness Bucky wants to punch, Loki appears right behind him in the saddle and cuddles close. “Ohh, I just wanted a little fun.”

Bucky vaults faster than the horse rears, and Loki is left rolling in the mud. In a flash, Steve punts Loki into Bucky’s waiting fist. Loki counters with some glittery shit blown into Bucky’s face, temporarily blinding him, but Steve’s stomach punch has Loki doubling over for breath. Bucky smacks his rifle butt onto Loki’s forehead, cracking the skull and spurting blood. He’s further rewarded with an unconscious Norse God in the muddy, snowy mess of the Meryton road, which is a win in his book.

Bucky shakes the last of the glitter out of his eyes. The rest of it is going to be stuck in his hair for _days_. “Yeah, he’s an easy kill.”

“Too easy. He wanted to be beaten.”

“Well, we can find out why the hell he’d want that when he wakes up. Here,” Bucky goes after the horse and calms it enough to take off the saddle’s stirrups, “use these to tie him.”

“We want to put _more_ belts on him?” Steve asks.

“Oh yeah, we’ve only got a few minutes. These guys have fast healing.”

And it’s true, since as soon as they’ve tied him up to the nearest hitching post, he’s blinking awake through all the blood already drying down his face. Bucky’s going to let Steve talk this time and settles himself into stretching menacingly in the background.

“’Morning, Loki,” Steve begins. “You’ve had your fun. What’s this game?”

“A good morning to you, Mr. Rogers,” Loki says. “I do adore your name.”

Steve crosses his arms and audibly rolls his eyes. “Look, this can go nicely for you, or you can have another pitiful round with my buddy back there.” He jams a thumb in Bucky’s direction, and Bucky takes this cue to grin with his teeth while flexing.

“Oh dear. Well, I really was bored, and I thought you might be too.”

“Got something cooking in Asgard you don’t want us messing with?”

“Wouldn’t. You. Like to. Know,” he says, enunciating each word.

Steve shrugs. “It’s probably the end of the world. Been reading up on Norse legends, and you figure a lot in Ragnarok.”

Loki looks taken aback a moment, and Bucky resists the urge to laugh. What? Like reading’s hard? “It’s a delicate plan,” Loki says, desperate to save face. “And your grubby mortal hands would ruin it.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, who else you got trapped here?”

“You’re not going to ask me to save the sentience of your precious Darcy and Caroline? And perhaps the Bennets?”

A gunshot cracks across the road, the boom of it echoing in Bucky’s ear. Blood runs forth and stains Loki’s shoulder. Steve stares. Loki stares. Bucky gawks at the shooter. “You know I hate using these things, James!” Caroline yells, coming up behind him, Darcy in tow. “Now who is this man you’re threatening?”

“Caroline—”

“And don’t you ‘Caroline’ me,” his sister pokes Bucky’s chest. “As soon as you left, everybody’s faces melted into themselves! Not only is that rude, but it’s unsightly. And somehow it’s your fault, James Buchannan!”

“It was him! He did it,” Bucky points, wanting to save himself from being skewered on Caroline’s nails. “Stop shooting him and we can get some answers.”

“Oh really, usually when something goes absolutely terrible, it’s because of you,” Caroline says, arch and doubtful. “And ‘don’t shoot him’ like this?” Caroline shoots Loki again, on the other shoulder, without so much as looking at her target. “Oops.” She faces off with the Asgardian. “Change everyone back,” she orders. “This is ridiculous.”

“Caroline, be careful for God’s sake,” Darcy says, coming up beside Steve. “Are you two well?” he asks Bucky and Steve. They nod. Bucky feels a flash of sympathy for Darcy. He’s well out of his element here. The man hasn’t so much as skinned a deer while Caroline has subdued and threatened pirates. He’s clutching a bundle of bandages as if his sanity depends on it. Then again, Darcy spots Loki aka “Wickham” and his spine stiffens.

Loki looks like a skull supported by leather at this point, and his cough sounds like a cat drowning. “Bruce Banner,” he says. “He’s Mr. Bennet.”

“You brought the Hulk into a novel about high society manners,” Bucky says. “Tasteful.”

“Oh, I think the casting is spot on,” Loki says.

Steve asks, “Okay, what about the rest of the team? Natasha? Sam? Clint? Tony? Wanda? Rhodey?”

“What are you talking about?” Caroline interrupts. “Why aren’t you asking about the faces?”

Ignoring Caroline, Loki addresses Steve, “Georgiana. Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth’s uncle Gardiner. Catherine de Bough. Ann de Bough. Denny. If you’d continued with the story, you’d have seen them. And it would have been brilliant.”

“What have you done with Georgiana?” Darcy demands. “How dare you speak her name, you scoundrel.”

“Are you a sorcerer? A witch? Have you placed a spell on me?” Caroline asks, her trigger finger starting to tremble.

“We need to get the rest of the Avengers, Buck,” Steve says.

This is getting dangerous. Bucky quietly stands behind Caroline and lifts the gun from her hand. “Мой дорогой, все будет хорошо.”

“No, it won’t!” Caroline shrieks. Tears wobble around her eyes. A wrenching sob. “What about Jane?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, gathers his sister in his arms, and rocks her back and forth. He starts mumbling childhood nonsense in Russian while giving Loki The Gaze at an intensity that if looks could kills, Loki would be murdered bloody.

“She’s real,” Loki smirks, casting The Gaze away. “I thought the modern world needed a Caroline Bingley.”

Darcy steps forward and smacks Loki full across the face. “How dare you misaddress this lady.”

“This lady used to be fictional,” Loki sneers. “As were you. But I gave you and your families a little push towards reality.”

Bucky’s jacket is soaked with tears. He is tired. He wants to go home, though he doesn’t know where that is besides Captain America’s arms. “Steve, let’s get everyone together and take them home.”

#

“Okay, and then you push this button down,” Bucky explains. “See that light? That means it’s heating.”

Bucky explaining to the Mr. Darcy how to use an electric kettle is an existential moment to end all other moments, but he’s going with it. Steve is trying not to giggle by drinking a piddly amount of milk at the breakfast bar, and Bucky hopes that the stupidly little amount of milk goes straight up the motha’ ‘ucker’s nose. “I already like this way of making tea better,” Darcy says. “None of that ‘mircowave’ ridiculousness.”

“Microwaves are real, Darcy,” Bucky reminds.

“And so is a decent cup of tea,” Caroline interrupts. She and Jane are sitting on either end of the common area sofa, feet in each other’s laps. Steve dug out his old SHIELD-approved socio-cultural pamphlets for them, and they’re reading and saying interesting points aloud. Caroline adds, “Decent teas do not come out of a microwave.”

“Look who knows all about the future!” Bucky mock-gasps. “Do you know who won the Cold War yet, sister?”

“It was the United States,” Caroline says through a glare.

“Really?” Jane asks, looking up. “Even after the Cuban bit?”

“Oh, the President took care of that,” Caroline says, with a smile and a faint touch of pride. Loki—bastard that he was—had been right that Caroline would like this century. She’s been practically glowing ever since stepping through the portal.

“I was most surprised by the advances in medicine,” Steve says. “Did you know people can clone animals now?”

“Clone?” Darcy asks.

“Make an exact biological copy,” Steve smiles. “They cloned this sheep and then they had two of the same sheep.”

“Jesus,” Bucky says. The kettle starts to hiss steam, and he points this out to Darcy. “Now, even though it’s making noise, you have to wait until the light goes off. That’s when it’s ready.”

“And then I put the tea sachet in the mug and pour the water on it,” Darcy says.

“Right,” Bucky pats his friend’s arm. “You’re doing great.”

Darcy has been the most fragile acclimating to the twenty-first century. Sure, everyone had a shock realizing that cars are a thing and mumps are not, but even Mrs. Bennet rallied after realizing that dreaded entails were a thing of the past. Since SHEILD no longer existed, Tony Stark agreed to house them all in Avengers Tower, and everyone took care to help them out.

Darcy had lost the most. Though her former husband did have to apologize and reveal that he was not married to her nor does he wish to be, Mrs. Bennet has all her daughters and even her two sisters. They could struggle together to figure out the new rules of society. Darcy has no one but Caroline. His “sister” had not apologized as much as revealed herself to be a redheaded government spy

Helping Darcy helps Bucky. His mind… is very full of things and people. Loki neglected to remove any of the Regency era memories before disappearing into thin air with a cackle. Now, Bucky’s head is full of Brooklyn, Romania, and Russia. He is Bucky; he is the Winter Solider; he is Mr. Buchannan. Or some amalgamation of all three.

With him, Caroline, and Darcy, it was like having a family. He wonders how long it will last. Already, the Hursts moved to a suite in Manhattan and the Lucases a flat in Brooklyn.

Darcy gingerly carries his mug of tea to the breakfast bar and sits down next to Steve. As Bucky’s coming around to join them, he sees Darcy swing his legs and a little pleased expression come on his face. It makes Bucky’s heart clench with giddy happiness.

“Hey, no smiling, Sergeant,” Steve says. He puts an arm around Bucky and sneaks a kiss.

“Is that so, Captain?” Bucky grins against Steve’s mouth and kisses again before parting. “So, Darcy, are you going to visit Elizabeth today?”

Darcy nearly chokes on his hard-won tea, and Jane giggles from the sofa. “She would love to have you,” she says. “I think she mentioned visiting a portrait gallery?”

Darcy fights down a blush, and mutters, “Of course, if she’d like to go there, I’d be happy to oblige.”

The National Portrait Gallery is in the heart of town. That’s only a few tube stops, but tubes are a bit alarming for those used to carriages. Bucky says to Steve, “Perhaps we should go too. To chaperone. 2016 or not, we must have decorum.”

Caroline gives a full laugh. “Have you even seen the Lady Gaga?”

“Just because you get to be very gay now doesn’t mean all the old ways must die,” Bucky says. “Besides, I haven’t been and I hear there’s one of me and ten of Steve.”

“I do not have ten portraits,” Steve blushes.

“Mmmhhhmmm,” Bucky says, unconvinced. “That’s not what the Internet says.”

“And who would go on the Internet and tell lies?” Darcy grimaces before drinking tea.

Steve chokes on his milk, and Bucky fist-pumps the air. “You referenced something!”

“I’m not dense, James. I know how to work Tumblr,” Darcy says.

“Oh! What’s your url?” Jane asks.

Darcy blushes and mutters something that sounds an awful lot like a Colin Firth appreciation blog. Bucky is suspicious and decides that he and Steve need to find this blog immediately. “So, Steve, is Natasha free today?”


End file.
